


So Falleth the Beast in the Garden of the Lord

by AgentJoanneMills



Category: Motherland: Fort Salem (TV)
Genre: (added a buncha scenes), (from 6k to 7k), Alternate Universe - Lucifer (TV) Fusion, F/F, I reread the Book of Revelation for this, Lucifer is a Confused Mess™, Mazikeen is a Beautiful Demon Friend™, Raelle is a Supportive Bean™, Reckless Gay Bean and Death Gay Bean, Scylla is dealing with A Lot™, Trigger Warning: Canon Depiction of Mass Suicide, Violence à la S01E01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:48:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24233833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentJoanneMills/pseuds/AgentJoanneMills
Summary: The devil, the beast, and the Christ come again walk into a club.It’s the perfect set-up for a modern divine comedy, but this time, there is no punch line.Alternatively:Scylla is the daughter of Lucifer, set to bring about the Great War. But God didn’t count on free will to screw that up, so here she is, happy and in love with the Christ come again.or, the Motherland: Fort Salem x Lucifer AU
Relationships: Raelle Collar/Scylla Ramshorn
Comments: 26
Kudos: 276





	So Falleth the Beast in the Garden of the Lord

**Author's Note:**

> *Recognizable elements belong to their respective owners.  
> **Merely a work of fanfiction. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> thank you catholic high school education for teaching me just enough religious symbolism and theology that i can use for my queer fanfiction lmao behold your blasphemous daughter

The devil, the beast, and the Christ come again walk into a club.

It’s the perfect set-up for a modern divine comedy, but this time, there is no punch line.

 _Take that, Dante,_ Scylla thinks, before biting back a sigh.

She _really_ needs a drink—or maybe twenty.

Good thing her father _does_ own this club, then. That’s one good thing to come out of all of this; if she’s to be forced to bring about the End of Times, she should at least be _not_ sober for it.

She deserves at least that, right?

It’s not like she chose to be condemned as the ruthless instrument of the destruction of the world or the universe or whatever. It’s not like she asked to be the beast who’d be thrown into the lake of fire. It’s not like she wanted to be cloaked in black and scarlet and be the leader who will gather Gog and Magog into the last fated battle of a doomed, unwinnable war, all in fulfilment of God’s grand overarching plan.

Right.

Where _is_ that drink?

****

Okay, start from the beginning:

_In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth_ —

—wait, no, no, not _that_ beginning.

****

The beginning of the end comes, ironically, on a Saturday.

Raelle’s managed to get back from her trip earlier than expected, so Scylla goes to the mall to meet her for brunch. The plan is to eat something for an actual date _outside_ work, maybe catch whatever’s playing on cinemas currently, and then head home and enjoy their weekend together.

It’s a simple enough plan, one to which Scylla is _really_ looking forward. It’s been so long since they’ve been on a proper date, after all, and this one may be last minute but it’s still _something_. She arrives a bit earlier, so she wanders aimlessly while waiting; Raelle’s caught in a bit of traffic jam based on her latest text, though she should be here any minute now.

There are lots of balloons decorating the mall, and Scylla idly observes the display in the main atrium. There’s some kind of sports event happening, apparently, and though she’s not really one to enjoy such things, she can admit that the lively atmosphere does wonders for her spirit. All she needs now is Raelle, and then it will be like nothing could ever go wrong.

Of course, it is at the exact moment she thinks it that something inevitably, terribly _does_.

She catches sight of a young girl looking at her with wonder, and Scylla smiles hesitantly but sincerely. The young girl smiles back, this small pure thing missing two front teeth, and before Scylla could understand what’s happening, she is running towards the fountain of Neptune in the middle of the hall.

“Wait!” Scylla shouts, but it falls on deaf ears. Trepidation mounts in her throat as the child quickly scrambles up the statue and then jumps off, impaling herself on Neptune’s trident.

Scylla blinks, frozen on the spot. Her brain is not quite processing what her eyes are seeing. Blood drips steadily into the water, staining it red, the colour stark against the white marble. 

What’s even more unsettling is that no one bats an eye at the fountain, as if a child isn’t hanging from there in some macabre spectacle.

And then it gets weirder, and Scylla can only stand there watching in muted horror as the worst day of her life unfolds.

People come tumbling from the railings of the mall’s upper levels, as they throw themselves over, falling straight to their deaths. On and on and on—a stream of bodies flung into the air and losing their fight against gravity seconds later.

Corpses begin piling like snow on pavement, and the scent of blood and despair permeates the air. It’s nearly suffocating, but there’s a sense of _rightness_ that is just so profoundly _wrong_ growing in Scylla’s back, pressing between her shoulder blades, and she wraps her arms around herself as great heaving breaths wrack her body.

A group of a dozen people approaches her, each with a knife drawn, and Scylla isn’t given a chance to panic about being possibly killed because then they are kneeling before her, their faces sporting matching calm grins. And Scylla can’t look away, caught as she is in some sort of grim fascination, as they all declare, “Hail, the Maiden, daughter of the Morning Star,” their voices ringing with faith and their eyes shining with awed reverence, and then swiftly plunge their knives into their hearts. They all fall at the same time, and their blood soon pools around Scylla’s feet.

She can only gasp, an abrupt shrill sound in the thick silence.

She doesn’t know how long she stands there in the middle of the _carnage_ but when she looks up, there on the other side, looking as horrified as Scylla feels, is Raelle.

“What the hell,” Raelle says, and honestly?

What the hell indeed.

****

_“You’re a miracle,” Scylla says, nipping at Raelle’s throat._

_“I know,” Raelle teases, though she’s noticeably winded, “and this miracle’s gonna be a thing of the past real quick if you don’t ease up and let me get dressed.”_

_“Come on,” Scylla whines, huddling closer, “five more minutes.”_

_“You know I want to,” Raelle says, carefully flipping them over so she hovers over Scylla. She presses a kiss to her pouting lips. “Unfortunately, not even I can survive Anacostia chewing me out again so I really need to be_ not _late today.”_

_Scylla wrinkles her nose at the thought of Raelle’s precinct captain. “Ugh, fine. Be reasonable.”_

_Raelle laughs, the sound like honey and the comfort of home. “Thanks for seeing it from my point of view.”_

_Scylla watches as Raelle hops around the room, picking up her clothes. Her hair is messy and her eyes are bright, and Scylla is overcome with a swell of affection, fit to burst. “I love you, you know,” she murmurs, soft, as she hugs a pillow to her chest._

_Raelle stops in her tracks, her pants halfway up her legs. Then she grins, brilliant and divine, and Scylla squeaks as Raelle jumps back on the bed, all thoughts of work forgotten._

****

Raelle works as a detective for the NYPD, and she immediately places a call as soon as she has ascertained that Scylla’s okay.

Well.

 _Okay_ is not the right word.

Scylla is still shaken, and that reflects on how she’s not stopped trembling, even while wearing Raelle’s jacket. Raelle’s concern is palpable, but Scylla’s much too distressed to do anything about it. She just lets herself be guided as they make their way outside, which takes more time than it should because of the overwhelming mass of bodies littered across the floor.

By the time they’ve gotten out, the police has arrived. Raelle talks to a couple of detectives who are also part of her unit.

“Scylla got here before me,” she hears Raelle saying. “When I saw her, she’s just standing there in the middle. Surrounded by like 12 people with knives. I don’t know how that happened.” She expels a harsh breath. “It’s a fucking bloodbath in there, Tal. Everyone dead. All civilians, as far as I know.”

“Christ.” Tally’s voice, dazed and barely there. “We’re gonna need to talk to Scylla too.”

“Yeah, I know, but can we maybe wait until—”

“It’s okay, Raelle,” Scylla says, staring at the floor.

“Scyl, are you sure?” Raelle sits beside her, tangling their fingers together. “We can do this later, catch your breath first—”

“I just want this to be over with.” Scylla finally meets her gaze. “Please.”

Raelle still looks uncertain, but she must have seen the desperation in Scylla’s eyes for she nods at Tally to carry on. She stays for the testimony, holding Scylla’s hand all the while, offering silent comfort, and Scylla loves her all the more fiercely for it.

When she finishes, Raelle’s jaw is clenched so tightly the muscle tics, and Tally’s eyes are glossed over with misery.

Scylla relates too much with that.

And then.

Like some sort of puppet with an unseen master, Tally pulls out her gun, releases the safety, and puts it right against her temple, finger on the trigger. Scylla sees the other officers do the same, and an icy drop of terror slides down her spine.

Then everything seems to slow down as Scylla watches Raelle immediately leap at Tally, batting her hand away. The gun misfires but it doesn’t deter Tally, until Raelle grabs her face, forcing her to look at her.

 _“Snap out of it!”_ Raelle thunders, in what seems to be a hundred different voices and a hundred thousand more, and Scylla feels the tremendous power held in each syllable rattle her down to the marrow of her bones.

The effect is instantaneous; Tally seems to unceremoniously wake up from a nap, groaning and shaking her head. The other officers are in a similar situation, confused and then freaking out as they notice themselves holding their _very_ loaded guns.

Scylla’s heart begins to hammer out a staccato beat as all the wrong things that have happened since this morning build up, forming a disturbing vision that she doesn’t want to acknowledge at all. Fear forms a mass right in the pit of her stomach, heavy and cold and terrible.

She meets Raelle’s gaze, and she sees the same fear so clearly reflected in her blue eyes.

This is going to be a problem.

****

_Scylla has always been intimately acquainted with death, much more than the average person. She can remember with a startling clarity how it all began._

_She desperately wishes she didn’t._

_(It was during her fifth birthday party when her nanny hanged herself. That was the beginning of all the strange things that had continued to happen to her or around her as she grew older.)_

_(And then another memory:_

_Her father, bringing her to a church and raising her on the altar, like a sacrificial lamb. The flash of seven daggers_ _—old, sharp, and wicked_ _—and then the police coming in, shooting him before he could carve her up._

_Her aunt took care of her, after that. Scylla had been staying with General Alder, her father’s sister who was a high-ranking official within the US military, since she was six. Through her, Scylla grew up to be an army brat, as familiar with the Pentagon as she was with the back of her own hand._

_Then she turned 18 and decided to get her own place in New York.)_

_She just wants to do good, really. So she goes to med school and does her best to learn everything she could to help people._

_But then everything goes to shit, as they’re prone to do in her life. Her first boyfriend jumping off a roof on their sixth month. Her first girlfriend walking into traffic after kissing her good night. A friend from middle school drinking poisoned beer, which was apparently intended for Scylla herself._

_It’s all too much, all these tragedies, and so instead of following a promising career in surgery, she decides to retreat and turn her attention to forensic pathology, becoming one of the youngest medical examiners in the city._

_Her aunt is justifiably doubtful of the decision, at first. But she doesn’t question it when Scylla tells her she likes solving mysteries and seeing things other people couldn’t. She can understand the self-satisfaction in that, after all_ _—in knowing things other people don’t. In going somewhere they can’t go._

_What Scylla doesn’t say is this:_

_There’s no reason for death to follow her if she’s already surrounded by the dead in the first place._

_Her aunt doesn’t need to know that._

_And so she commits herself to a drab, cold, and lonely life with cadavers and murder weapons and DNA samples. It might not have been where she originally saw her life going, but she truly enjoys the work. There’s something calming in the thought that though she couldn’t save the dead, she could at least help in giving them some measure of justice._

_It isn’t so bad._

_And then Raelle comes crashing into her life like a furious comet, and Scylla’s drab, cold, and lonely life is set ablaze with the flames of twelve radiant suns._

_And in her incandescent presence, for the first time, Scylla understands what it means to truly be alive._

****

The first time Scylla meets her father—her _real_ father—she’s on the verge of a panic attack.

She’s pacing in a hotel room, agitated and undeniably scared.

1,260.

That’s the final count of people who died three days ago in the mall _incident_. That’s what the media is calling it. An “incident”. Like someone just dropped a cup of coffee on the concrete.

1,260.

It would have ratcheted up higher if Raelle didn’t stop the police from blasting their own brains out in time.

Right. Raelle.

She’s gone to the precinct for a little while. “I’ll be back in an hour, just gotta check on something,” she told Scylla.

Tick-tock.

The sound of the clock is loud against the silence.

Tick-tock.

1,260.

1,260 people.

1,260 people _dead_.

She’s going to be _sick_.

Before she can go to the bathroom and do just that, the doors are thrown open, and Scylla stares helplessly as a tall man strolls in, holding two oddly familiar daggers. His eyes are indescribably dark, like they suck in all light that touches them, but in their depths there are sparks of _red_ and _war_ and _wrath_.

He stops when he sees Scylla just standing, observing him with wide eyes. He doesn’t look surprised nor sorry at all, what with barging in like he owns the place. Instead, he cocks his head, studying her as if _she’s_ the one who entered the room without permission.

Scylla would have been irritated if there weren’t a thousand deaths already weighing on her shoulders, and that’s not even an exaggeration. As it is, she just draws further into herself, crossing her arms.

“Well,” he says, sounding unsure, “you look positively wrecked.”

Scylla smiles, just as unsure. “Thanks, I guess.”

“Right.” The man clears his throat, scratching at his cheek. “Er, have I gotten the right room? I could have sworn the maître d’ said it’s Room 242, but she could be wrong. Mortal minds do tend to be a bit muddled, poor things.”

“You tell me,” she says. “Who are you looking for?”

“Scylla Ramshorn.”

“The maître d’ is right after all.” She shrugs when he looks at her askance. “I’m Scylla Ramshorn. What can I do for you?”

“Oh. Hmm.” The man watches her curiously, the daggers clanging in his grip. He shifts on his feet, and Scylla begins to fidget under his gaze. Then he asks, “I don’t suppose you’ll allow me to kill you, do you?”

Well.

That’s something.

“Using those daggers, I presume?”

“Yes,” the man confirms. He regards one with keen distaste. “These are the only remaining of the Daggers of Megiddo. Specifically made for the job. There are _supposed_ to be seven, but Ephesus and Pergamum shall do for now, until I’ve thought of a more permanent solution.”

 _Seven daggers._ Scylla stares. “Made for the job,” she repeats blankly. “Which is—?”

“Killing you, of course.”

“Of course.” Scylla sighs, suddenly exhausted. “Can I sit down for this conversation?”

“I don’t see why not,” he answers, albeit warily.

Scylla sits on the edge of the couch. There are so many questions she wants to ask, but what she settles for is, “Why do you need special daggers to kill me?”

The man looks at her as if she had grown two heads. At the rate things are going, she wouldn’t be surprised if she did. “Well, if these daggers didn’t exist, there’d be no hope of stopping you before your full powers are unleashed.”

“My . . . full powers?” She frowns. “What does that even _mean_?” And there must have been a truly awful look of confusion on her face, for the man groans, deep and forlorn and mirthless, and pockets the daggers.

“Oh, _bollocks_.” The man rubs a hand over his face. “You have _no_ idea at all, do you?” and Scylla’s bewilderment is flagrant enough that he just groans again. “Of course you don’t, because nothing in this world can ever be easy and my father takes particular enjoyment in making sure I’m fucked over every single day as the price of my rebellion.”

And then he proceeds to pace on the floor, and there’s something she recognises, almost, in the way he’s moving—restless and mad and troubled—and an inkling of a thought begins to unravel in Scylla’s mind, like the first bloom of spring.

_Hail, our Maiden, daughter of the Morning Star._

Penny in the air.

“I would very much like to have an idea of what’s happening now,” she offers.

“Right.” The man stops in front of her, and his eyes are dark and endless and dreadful, but despite that his gaze begins to warm. “Hello, darling,” he says, and he offers her a small, sad smile. “I’m your father.”

Penny drops.

****

Her father—her _real_ father—is the Devil, and he’s sitting on a tiny couch in a cheap hotel, looking as out-of-place as a fish out of water.

Or. In their case. As an angel out of heaven.

He tells her of his life in Los Angeles, and also of his life before that—in hell, of course, as its supreme ruler.

“I’m on an extended vacation,” he says, as if that’s perfectly normal. “Hell’s becoming too dreary.”

He tells her he only heard about her because of the massacre in the mall.

“I saw it on the news,” he says. “The number of deaths—1,260. That’s deliberate.”

Bile rises in her throat. “How so?”

“It’s the number of days in three and a half years, which is half of seven years. Seven is His number, symbolising perfection, fullness, totality, or some bullshit like that.” He scoffs in derision. “Pompous prick.”

“So what—it’s a message?”

“Sort of. There’s a reason you’re there at the exact same time, at the exact same place.” He looks at her carefully. “I know you didn’t kill them.”

Scylla doesn’t think she deserves that assurance. Her voice is shaky when she speaks. “But my presence affected them.”

“Your powers are meant to control legions,” he says, shrugging. “Hundreds of thousands can fall at your feet if you wish it. The fact that something like this hasn’t happened until now should mean that you’ve at least had some measure of control, despite not knowing what you’re wielding in the first place.”

“But I—” She stops. Opens her mouth. Stops again. Something niggles at the back of her mind. “How come I never affected Raelle?”

“Who’s Ra—”

And then the doors open again, Raelle barging in. Her eyes survey the room, and she starts at the quaint tableau of her girlfriend and a man in a suit, drinking tea.

_Speak of the devil and all that_ , Scylla thinks, and she swallows back a scream.

****

Raelle glares at Scylla’s father with naked suspicion. “Who the hell are you?”

He just tilts his head at her, derisive. “The Lord of Hell, in point of fact,” he says.

“What?”

“Lucifer Morningstar.”

Raelle blinks. “Is that like, a stage name or something?”

“Absolutely not.” He looks a touch enraged. Scylla struggles to _not_ laugh. “My, you sound just like _her_.”

“Who?”

“My detective in the LAPD.”

That piques Scylla’s curiosity. “You work for the police?”

“I do not work _for_ anyone, darling,” he says. “I work _with_ them because I want to, and the detective is incredibly charming when she’s mad. Which she always is, for some reason, so there’s that.”

“She’s your girlfriend?”

“Nothing so juvenile like _that_.” He sniffs, nose upturned in contempt. “Besides, the detective isn’t very cooperative when I bring up our relationship as it is. She’s got her brain all up in a twist, not believing I’m the Devil at first and then seeing my true face _and then_ running away. But well. She’s working on it, I think.” His lips curl in what Scylla can also describe as a pout. “Human beings are so tedious when it comes to grasping at things they don’t necessarily want to believe.”

“You speak like you’re not human,” Raelle says, and Scylla hides a wince.

“I should hope not,” her father says. “Like I said, I’m the Lord of Hell. Can’t be that if I were mortal.”

“Lord of Hell,” Raelle echoes dubiously. “Like, the Devil. The Serpent of Eden. The Great Tormentor. Satan. Beelzebub.”

“Exactly.” He appraises her. “Someone went to Sunday school.”

“Someone’s going to prison if I don’t get an explanation right now.”

“Raelle, please,” Scylla says, holding a hand towards her. “Sit with me.”

Raelle looks at the hand, at her father, and back again, before finally taking it. She lets herself be pulled towards the couch, but her perch is tense, ready to bolt at the slightest provocation. Scylla tangles their fingers together, a thumb rubbing circles meant to appease. Her father makes to speak, but she shakes her head.

“This is Raelle,” Scylla tells him first, “detective with the NYPD. She’s my. Uh. Girlfriend.”

The words settle in the tension around them. “A detective of your own. Of course.” Her father looks ill at the thought of his daughter being in a relationship, but he manages to shoot her a fond smile. “Well, I suppose we’re more alike than we thought.”

“What’s happening,” Raelle says, and Scylla sighs.

“Raelle,” she says meekly, meeting Raelle’s eyes, “this is my father.”

Raelle stares, and she stares back. “What.”

“This is my father,” Scylla repeats, her head already aching from the disaster this meeting will inevitably be. “And he’s the Devil.”

****

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Raelle says, after Scylla’s father explains what really happened in the mall.

He just huffs, petulant like a toddler. “You really sound like the detective. You’ll get along just _fine_.”

“There’s no way you’re the Devil,” she insists, and there’s a bite of a challenge in her words.

A feeling of foreboding falls upon Scylla when she realises her father caught it too.

“Careful, child,” he says, lowly, “or I’d show you a glimpse of my realm.”

Raelle grits her teeth, and Scylla knows she can’t stop her. “Then do it.”

Her father regards Raelle with concentrated irritation, and its claws nip bitterly at the edge of Scylla’s consciousness. Raelle doesn’t seem affected, however, and she just meets Lucifer’s gaze with a glare of her own.

“You’re insolent for a mortal,” Lucifer says. “Let’s change that.” Then for a terrible moment, his eyes glow wild with hellfire, before returning to endless blacks.

And then.

Nothing happens.

That shakes Lucifer out of his irritation. “You’re not . . . running away?”

Raelle raises an eyebrow. “So it’s true.”

“What?”

“You’re the Devil.”

“I’ve been saying that— Wait, so you saw?”

“Yes.” Raelle presses her lips together, regarding him curiously. “If you’re really the Devil—”

“—which I am, how many times do we have to—”

“—and Scylla’s your kid, then that means Scylla’s, what, like, half-angel?”

“More like the Antichrist, really,” Scylla says.

Raelle frowns at that, insulted. “You’re too pretty to be the Antichrist—”

“Can we go back to _me_?” Lucifer says. “How are you not affected by the vision of Hell?”

“I don’t know!” Raelle yells, frustrated. “You’re the Devil, why don’t you have the answers?”

“That’s my father’s thing!” he yells back, equally frustrated.

“Your father— what, like, God?”

“Yes, exactly like God, can you keep up? I’m the Devil, my father’s God. Aren’t detectives supposed to be smarter than that?”

“ _Jesus Christ._ ”

“No, don’t bring _him_ into this, it’s already all so complicated as it is.”

“Can you shut up, I’m _thinking_.”

“Did you just tell _me_ to shut up?” He looks incredulous, torn between offense and grudging respect.

“I did.”

“It has been millennia since anyone dared to do that,” he says. “Maze doesn’t count, she’s my demon, well, not _my_ demon but she’s sworn to protect me and all that jazz, though on second thought, I really shouldn’t trust her after all the lies and betrayal, honestly, you’d think I’d know better than to put my belief in a hell spawn, but then there’s also the detective, who also tells me to shut up quite often, though of course she’s infinitely more charming—”

“I said _shut up_!” Raelle roars, in that same thunderous voice she used on Tally, and just like then, Scylla feels the wave of her power, making her breathless.

The fluorescent bulb flickers several times before sputtering dead, and the windows rattle as if there’s a hurricane outside before giving in with loud, successive cracks.

Lucifer appears as stricken as Raelle does, and Scylla feels the tendril of a horrifying truth crawl over all of them like a poisonous vine. He is staring past them, his eyes are fixed on the wall behind, glossy and hopeless with unwanted comprehension.

Against her instincts clanging like bells within her skull, Scylla turns to look.

There, unfurling from both Scylla’s and Raelle’s shadows, are the spectral outlines of enormous wings, tangling together like spider webs.

“Ah, well.” Her father blows a ragged breath, staring at Raelle with an unreadable expression. “It seems to me that Jesus Christ already has been brought into this, after all.”

****

_Raelle is silent as she stares at her. She is beautiful and wild, selfless and brave. She’s the kind of girl Scylla has long decided does not exist here in this wretched excuse of a world. And yet here she is, with hair like hammered gold and eyes the blue of the summer sky, lending Scylla her quiet strength._

_The cemetery is empty save for the two of them and its permanent residents, staying six feet under. There’s a blanket of peace that Scylla only ever experiences with Raelle beside her; the constant lament living in the back of Scylla’s skull quiets down, and she savours it, wanting to stretch it up to time indefinite._

_“Death’s not the end, not really,” Scylla murmurs. Crows circle overhead, and she can feel them watching too. “In their own way, the dead like to speak. Their stories are carved into their skin or in the way blood falls around them. Their teeth tell truths as surely as their voices could have. Arguments could be etched on the fractures of their bones. Disagreements could leave hidden marks under their fingernails.” She exhales, tracing the edge of her father’s gravestone. “They say a lot. I’m just willing to listen.”_

I’m here too, to listen to you, _Raelle doesn’t say, but Scylla hears her just as well._

_They stand there, hands clasped together, until the first snow falls._

****

“This is a very sudden move, Scylla,” her aunt says, and Scylla can imagine her perplexed frown on the other end of the line.

“I know, I know,” she says, “but I need a change in scenery, after what happened.”

“I understand that.” Scylla doesn’t doubt it. “But California? That’s too far away.”

“It is, but I— This is the right decision for me, right now.”

“I won’t be able to visit you quite as often.”

“I know.” Scylla blinks back the tears that threaten to fall. She feels Raelle stand behind her, her arms drawing Scylla in, and Scylla leans back against her, drawing from her strength. She tangles her fingers with the ones sliding across her stomach. “I’m sorry.”

She hears her aunt sigh, a sound full of weariness that Scylla herself feels. In her mind’s eye she imagines General Alder—no, her Aunt Sarah—on her huge chair, her awards and accolades displayed proudly on the walls of her office. There’d be a mug of coffee long gone cold on her desk, which is littered with confidential files and status reports. “Don’t be,” Aunt Sarah says. “Never apologise for doing what’s good for you, Scylla, especially if it’s not harming anyone.”

Scylla nods, before realising she can’t see her. “Okay.”

“Good.” She can hear her smile. “Well, then. I will expect you to contact me regularly and to keep me up-to-date with any other major changes in your life. That detective is moving with you too, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” She clears her throat, and Scylla almost giggles at her aunt’s next words. “It’s nice that you have someone to watch your back in a new place.”

“Of course, Aunt Sarah.”

“Just take care of yourself.”

“I will,” Scylla says, “don’t worry.”

Aunt Sarah scoffs. “We’re talking about you here, starling,” she says, “I’m always going to worry.”

“Hey!” Scylla objects, laughingly, and the conversation takes a more cheerful tone.

By the time they hang up, Scylla’s feeling lighter.

“Good talk?” Raelle murmurs against the nape of her neck.

“Yeah, sorry, it took a while.”

“It’s okay.” Raelle carefully turns her around, and Scylla drapes her arms around her neck.

This is their last night in New York. Tomorrow they’ll be on the other side of the country. _A beginning and an end._ “Wanna sleep?”

Raelle smirks. “Nice try,” she says, and then leans in for a heated kiss.

****

_Scylla’s doing some work at home, jotting notes as she reads over findings sent from the lab. Raelle lies there on Scylla’s bed, and when Scylla glances at her, she’s staring at the ceiling as if it holds answers to questions she hasn’t even thought to ask yet. She’s as achingly beautiful as a summer storm, and she’s close enough to touch but still Scylla_ yearns _for her._

_“No bad guys to chase today?”_

_“Lots.” Raelle waves a hand dismissively. “I just. Hit a wall.”_

_“Anything I can help you with?”_

_“You’re already helping.”_

_Scylla pauses from her note-taking, surprised. “I am?”_

_“Yeah.” Raelle shrugs, displacing her pillow. She doesn’t seem to notice. “You make the world go quiet.”_

_Scylla’s chest seizes at the soft statement, at the almost absent-minded way Raelle delivers it. Like a fundamental truth that doesn’t need much thought at all. She doesn’t know how_ quiet _she is then, with her heartbeat loud between her ears. “Oh.”_

_Raelle just hums, and Scylla loves her._

****

Her father looks a bit upset as she and Raelle stand before him, two duffel bags and two suitcases between them.

“What?” she asks.

“Is that—” He sounds strangled, and he tries again. “Is that it?”

“Is what it?”

“That’s”—he gestures haplessly at their baggage—“all you’re taking with you to LA?”

Raelle snorts. “Are you asking if we’ve got no other earthly possessions?”

He looks distraught but doesn’t deny it, and Scylla laughs. “Father,” she says, “we can always ask movers to pack the rest.”

He doesn’t look convinced. “But this is enough for you for now?”

“We’re not very particular with our things. I grew up in the army, where we’re taught to pack less.” Scylla nudges Raelle. “And Raelle’s a detective.”

Raelle looks exasperated. “Thanks, babe,” she says dryly, and Scylla laughs again.

“Well,” her father says, “this won’t do. We’re going shopping on your first day. Jot that down.”

“But—”

“You’re my daughter, and that one’s your chosen for some reason, and if you’re living with me, you gotta look the part.”

“Living _with you_?” Raelle blanches.

Lucifer looks weirdly at her. “As in with me _in LA_ , not in the penthouse. Dear Dad. I will rip you apart if I hear you defiling my daughter, so getting a separate place for you will be the wiser decision for all of us.”

“Father!”

****

_Sunlight streams through the windows, and Raelle’s hair catches with the aureate glow of saints. Scylla reaches out and lets her fingers play with the flaxen strands, and Raelle hums at the sensation._

_Minutes pass before Raelle finally blinks herself awake, whispering a bleary “good morning”._

_“Slept well?” Scylla asks._

_Raelle just nods, smiling, then tilts to press the gentlest of kisses on Scylla’s lips. “Better,” she murmurs, voice stills scratchy from sleep. Her mouth trails feather-light kisses along Scylla’s jawline and down her throat. “Best.”_

_“Hey,” Scylla says, chuckling, “at least eat breakfast first.”_

_“This is breakfast,” Raelle says cheekily, and Scylla rolls her eyes even as she tugs her closer, intent to spend the morning in the hazy light of heaven._

****

“Raelle.” Lucifer snorts. “Of course you’re named _Raelle_. _Israel_ , soldier of God. Very on the nose.”

Raelle turns away from the plane’s window. The sun has begun to set, and the clouds are awash with the colours of twilight, golds and oranges and pinks and lilacs. “It’s not like I named myself,” she tells him.

“No, of course not. Still pretentious though, naming the Lamb of God after His own people. Did your mother choose that for you? Kinda like, hail, full of grace, behold the Lord of Zion?”

“I don’t know,” she says, thoughtfully. “I haven’t asked. Probably because by the time I learned about all this—which is like, oh, I don’t know, 48 hours ago—she’s already been dead for several years.”

“Ah. Hmm.” He clears his throat. “Right.”

She looks amused. “Don’t be awkward on my account.”

“Never!” he yelps, offended. “Anyway, you sound really indifferent about being who you are, huh.”

“Is that reluctant admiration I hear?”

“You know what,” Lucifer says, imbuing his words with malicious compulsion, “go fall in a ditch.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Raelle sing-songs, and she laughs heartily at his infuriated grumble.

“Can you two please keep it down,” Scylla says, burrowing closer to Raelle, eyes stubbornly closed.

“Sorry, babe.”

“Of course, darling.”

She doesn’t see them trading defiant stares, but she doesn’t have to.

She just hums, content in Raelle’s inviting warmth and her father’s tender protection.

She falls asleep listening to the soothing sound of their quiet bickering.

****

_Raelle’s hand is golden on her pale skin, and to Scylla she burns like a candle in the growing darkness. Her kiss speaks of cavernous desire, and Scylla chases the taste deep inside her mouth._

_There is so much she wants to do to her, tonight and in the nights to follow, but for now Scylla settles for pouring into her everything she doesn’t have the words to say, as Raelle grasps at her hips and the ridges of her spine._

_Raelle’s here, and Raelle’s_ hers _, and that means more to Scylla than anything else._

****

“Mazikeen, I’m home!” Lucifer calls as soon as they enter Lux. The club’s empty, which is just as well, because Scylla isn’t really in the mood to deal with people throwing themselves at her right now.

He stirs Scylla and Raelle towards the barstools, before hopping over to get glasses and a bottle of whiskey. He’s just finished pouring for them when a woman appears at the top of the stairs, raising an eyebrow at the picture they make as she steadily descends. “Ah, Mazikeen, come on!” Lucifer grins. “I want you to meet someone! Well, two someone’s, but the blonde’s barely relevant.”

“Gee, thanks,” Raelle says, deadpan. She takes a sip of whiskey, unaffected by Lucifer’s mildly annoyed glare.

“Having a party?” Mazikeen asks. When she reaches the bar she appraises Raelle, then Scylla, though her gaze lingers far longer on the latter. “Aren’t they too young for you, though?”

“Yes!” he answers before he actually comprehends the words. Then he shakes his head, scowling at her. “Wait, _no_ , that’s positively ghastly, it’s not like _that_ , don’t be ridiculous.” He looks at Scylla and the scowl immediately drops, like he couldn’t possibly have any other response to looking at her. He’s beaming, there’s no other term for it, and the smile he sends Scylla makes her feel _so_ warm inside because that’s _her_ father and he looks so proud of her. “Look, Mazikeen, here is my first-born, my only begotten, the Child of the Dawn,” he says, both serious and doting, and Scylla smiles.

At that Mazikeen inhales sharply, staring at Scylla in this new light, and her eyes get this teary gleam like someone has just given her a present she’s always wanted. She gets down on one knee and presses one of Scylla’s hands to her forehead, saying, “Hail, Princess, the Great Omen, the Sovereign of Smyrna. Hail, the daughter of the Prince of Darkness, of the venom and poison of the Left Hand of the Presence.”

****

_“I could have killed you.”_

_Scylla turns to her father. He looks worn-out, his eyes filled with a broken sadness. “I know.”_

_“It would have been so easy.” He sounds afraid of that fact. “In my hands, the Daggers, even incomplete, would have sufficed.”_

_“I know,” she says again._

_Her father heaves a shuddering breath. “My daughter,” he croaks, wretched, and his eyes shine with so much guilt and regret and an all-consuming hatred for himself. “I am so sorry.”_

_Scylla cups his cheek. “Hey,” she says, her voice as tremulous as her touch, “you have nothing to be sorry for.”_

_“‘Nothing’!” He shakes his head, appalled, but he grasps her hand just the same. “I could have killed you! And I would have!”_

_“And yet you didn’t.” She smiles. “Let’s not linger in the past. You stopped as soon as you knew I had no idea I was even supposed to bring about the Great War.”_

_Her father meets her gaze right then, and Scylla bears witness as he makes some sort of decision, his black eyes glinting with beatific clarity. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there, all these years, and that I’d allowed you to feel the misery of constant solitude. I’m sorry that I showed up out of the blue only to try and kill you, of all things.” Scylla feels a sob choking her up, and her father draws her close, pressing his lips on her forehead. “But I swear to you now, my love, my Star most adored, I will never let you walk any path alone, ever again.”_

_Light flashes outside, sharp and fiery, and Scylla weeps in her father’s arms._

****

“Who’s the other one?” Mazikeen stares at Raelle with little interest once she’s done processing that Lucifer’s heir is actually _here_.

“Hi,” Raelle says. “My name is Raelle and I like it when people talk about me as if I’m not here.”

“Love,” Scylla says, “don’t antagonise them.”

“ _Love_?” Mazikeen asks. “You’re together?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.” Mazikeen drinks tequila straight from the bottle. “Nice. You and Lucifer have a type, I guess.”

“The detective’s blonde too?”

“Yeah. And also annoying.”

“Thanks,” Raelle says.

“See,” Maze says. “Annoying. Want me to carve you up, punk?”

“Only if you’re fast enough.”

“Okay,” Scylla says, patting Raelle’s cheek, “why don’t we cool down.”

“Sure,” Raelle agrees easily, “but only ’cause you asked.”

Mazikeen studies the two, like they’re pieces of a puzzle and she doesn’t know what the final image is. “Are you enthralled?”

Raelle quirks an eyebrow. “What?”

“But if you’re enthralled, you shouldn’t even be coherent enough to be smart with me.” Mazikeen glances at Lucifer. “The hell is wrong with this kid?”

“Hell is exactly what’s _not_ wrong with her.” Lucifer shrugs. “She’s got the Grace of Michael, Maze. She’s the Second Coming.”

And then as quick as a whip, Mazikeen has put herself between Raelle and Scylla. “What the _fuck_?” she growls, directed at Lucifer, though her gaze never leaves Raelle. “How is that not _relevant_?!”

“Look,” Raelle says, looking far too nonchalant, as if a demon doesn’t have a dagger pointed at her throat, “I’m not here for trouble.”

“Well, that’s counterproductive, darling,” Lucifer drawls. “Trouble always comes here, after all.”

“Eh, I can handle that.”

Mazikeen’s dagger inches closer, until its point is nearly breaking Raelle’s skin. “You really should shut up, punk.”

“If telling her that _could_ shut her up, our trip would have been substantially easier, believe me,” Lucifer says.

Raelle uses two fingers to push the dagger away. “I’m all for flirting,” she says, amicably enough, “but I’d really rather do it with my girlfriend. _So please step away._ ” The last sentence is spoken with a fraction of divine power, stern as the ancient stones of Mt. Sinai, and Mazikeen hisses until she drops the dagger on the floor and _obeys_. Raelle turns fully on her stool, and thunder rolls outside. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I really don’t want anything to do with whatever the prophets said. I’m not here to fulfill anyone’s plan but my own, and that’s mainly just about keeping Scylla safe and happy for as long as I live. So,” she tells them, a grin playing on her lips, “can we stop being jerks to each other now?”

Mazikeen glowers, but respect is there, sullenly peeking in her eyes. “I take it back,” she says, finally, “you’re more annoying than Chloe.”

Raelle just laughs.

****

_“Father,” she says, her voice a quiet whisper, “why do I remember their faces? All the people I’ve killed?”_

_“That’s not you!” he protests, indignant. “_ You _didn’t kill them.”_

_“Sure feels like it.” Scylla draws her knees closer to her chest, seated on the couch in her father’s study. “Sometimes, it’s like I can feel their last thoughts, and then I see their faces, all strewn together like the ripples of a river.”_

_“Angelic memory.” Lucifer’s eyes are flickering shadows. “It’s cruel and brutal, never going to let anything slip you by. I’m afraid I’m the one to blame for that, and I’m sorry you have to suffer through it.”_

_“How do you live with it?”_

_Her father remains silent for so long Scylla’s thought he won’t answer at all. But when he does, her heart aches at the pain in his voice. “If I ever learn how,” he says, delicate as a promise, “you’ll be the first to know.”_

_She falls asleep to the sound of her father’s gentle singing._

****

“He’s called the Morning Star, the Light Bringer, the Son of the Dawn. All these beautiful things, and you saw the feathers. Pure, as white as snow.” Chloe Decker shakes her head. “I just don’t understand, why he has to be the scapegoat of all the evil in the world. How can a father cast aside his son, after everything? Condemn him to an eternity of loneliness, filling him up with hate and self-loathing?”

Scylla looks at this woman who has opened up the Devil’s heart, this woman who sees what she sees—a broken boy, hungry and longing for his father’s love but continues to be vilified, until the aeons have battered him enough to present a harsh and unfeeling façade. She sighs. “Trying to understand His will and His decisions never ended well for anyone,” she says.

“It’s cruel,” Chloe declares, with more resolve than ever seen in a mortal soul. And suddenly Scylla understands, how her father has come to fall for her, how the Beast from the Abyss rose from the ashes of his ruin and reclaimed the beauty of his wings, and hope sprouts from the charred remains of her heart.

For Scylla herself is the Beast from the Sea. It’s been written in the Scriptures, and her end has been decided long before she ever drew breath.

But if the Devil can write over his story, bringing in enough light to chase away the blackest nightmares, who’s to say she can’t write over her own?

****

_“Was it so wrong of him, do you think, to ask for his father’s love?” she asks in a whisper._

_“No,” Raelle answers, firm and certain. “What’s wrong is that a child had to ask for a parent’s love at all.”_

_Her eyes are storms of righteous fury, and Scylla’s heart lurches with the boundless weight of her adoration._

****

She really _does_ see her end, here in Raelle’s arms. Predicted in the Revelations and foretold by the divine prophets.

Raelle _does_ destroy her with her spirit of gold and the brightness of the heavens. Her fingertips ignite the flames that shall destroy the whore of Babylon, and her touch is the sword that brings about the Judgement, leaving behind utter devastation.

And Scylla is at home within her arms, kissing her with the heat of hellfire in her breath and the scent of sulfur that lingers in her skin. The trumpets may resound and the seas may fall apart, but Scylla would sooner face the seven angels and their seven plagues than ever willingly turn away from Raelle’s embrace.

For Raelle may be the Lamb of God, but she’s chosen a different bride.

And Scylla is here to make sure she knows that her chosen bride will never forsake her, and they’re bound to each other in this dance forever and a day.

Each step is measured with the sound of their heartbeats and the thrum of celestial blood within their veins. It’s ancient and new and eternal and ephemeral, a fixed point lost in time, a paradox of all possibilities and every impossibility stitched into the fabric of reality.

It’s everything right and everything wrong, as they both shape and unmake the cosmos and build and destroy whole stars and galaxies and create and rip apart the entire universe.

And tomorrow, they will do it all over again.

**Author's Note:**

> interestingly enough, in the DC comics, scylla looks more like [elaine belloc](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/e/e8/Lucifer_47.png) who is michael’s daughter. also, in the antichrist mythos, raelle’s golden looks are more reminiscent of damien thorn as played by [bradley james](https://m.media-amazon.com/images/M/MV5BYjQ4NGMzY2QtZDE3Mi00NjYxLWFkNGEtYWQzNzRhNTZiNmM3XkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyMjI5Mzc2Mzg@._V1_UY1200_CR180,0,630,1200_AL_.jpg).
> 
> unbeta’ed as always and this piece, as short as it is, made my head hurt too much, i hope it’s coherent tho ashdhhjggfhgffg
> 
> aLSO to all of you who leave comments and reactions, you never fail to make me smile and feel gooey inside. so i want to say two words: _thank you._ a simple phrase it may be, but until such a time that another one is invented that can encompass the ineffable gratitude and sincere joy your words and thoughtful messages fill me with, it will have to suffice. for now.
> 
> until next time, homies! stay safe and hydrate!
> 
> you can come yell at me or something on [Tumblr](http://agentjoannemills.tumblr.com/ask) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/agentjoannemil1)!  
> 


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